


May Prompt Fest fic collection

by illuminatedcities



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Backrubs, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Sleep Sex, Suit Porn, Voice Kink, tailor!Finch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2018-03-31 04:11:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3963892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illuminatedcities/pseuds/illuminatedcities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of fics that were the result of prompts submitted into my askbox on http://dont-mess-with-the-pancreas.tumblr.com/ .</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The truth is just a rule that you can bend

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Anonymous asked for Rinch & dry humping / frottage 
> 
> Title from “Black Sheep” by Metric.

Their latest number was a close call, and even though John has been watching the rearview mirror for the whole drive, neither of them feels particularly confident to return to the subway station until they can be sure that they weren’t followed.

  
Harold chooses a hotel that’s nice enough, but not _too_ nice to draw attention.

  
When they check in at the front desk, John asks for a single room, suggesting with a raised eyebrow that there is no way in hell he’s letting Harold out of his sight tonight, not with Samaritan spies potentially watching their every move.

  
Harold gives him a look John can’t decipher, before wrapping up the transaction and paying in cash. The clerk gives them a key, and John follows Harold to the elevator, checking the lobby with watchful eyes for any potential threat.

\--

It’s only when Harold opens the door and switches on the light that it occurs to John that he should have specified that the room should include two beds instead of one queen-sized one, but Harold just puts his coat and hat away and leaves his bag on the desk, not seeming to mind.

  
“Is there a side of the bed you prefer? The one closer to the door, maybe?” Harold asks.

  
John, who has opened his mouth to say exactly that - easy escape route, and whoever wants to get to Harold will have to go through him first -, grins at him.

  
“Sounds fine,” he says. “I’ll just get cleaned up real quick, if you don’t mind.”

  
Harold nods, walking around to the bed to draw back the comforter and taking off his tie.

  
John goes into the bathroom and closes the door, gets into the shower and lets himself relax for a moment under the hot spray pounding against his neck, turning his face into the water and letting the tension of the day drain out of him.

  
When he gets back out, hair dripping wet and in just his boxers, Harold has already turned off the lights except for the bedside lamp on John’s side, and is asleep, curled up on his side.

\--

Harold wakes from a noise and the sense of movement by his side, and he is confused for a moment before he startles awake all the way.

  
_Is something wrong with John, are they in any imminent danger?_

  
Harold manages to turn on the lamp by his bed and find his glasses on the nightstand, and then turns around to look at where John has spread out his long limbs beside him.

  
John is asleep, his eyes closed, making little noises, apparently dreaming.

  
Harold lets himself sink against the pillow, relieved.  
The digital clock on the nightstand says 02:32.

  
John mumbles something, nonsense words, and Harold tries to figure out if he is having a nightmare. John doesn’t seem particularly distressed, but he is moving around a lot, probably stuck in some kind of chase or firefight in his dream.  
Harold wonders what John dreams about, and suddenly hopes that there are nicer scenarios than car chases and flying bullets. He ponders if he should wake John up.  
Harold vaguely remembers having read something about avoiding to wake people up in the middle of a dream - or was that sleepwalking?

  
“Mr. Reese? _John?_ ” Harold asks.

  
John is lying half on his stomach, his body moving beneath the covers as if he’s searching for a more comfortable position.

  
Then he makes another sound, a small, needy groan, and Harold realizes that John is most certainly not having a nightmare after all.  
He is moving his hips against the mattress in a slow rhythm, rubbing his erection against the sheets for friction, and for a moment Harold is mesmerized by the slow slide of John’s hips against the sheet, hands curled into white fabric.

  
Harold swallows, his throat suddenly feeling much too tight.

  
John is curling a little closer to his side of the bed, seeking the warmth of Harold’s body. Harold wonders how long John has been in this state before Harold woke up, rutting against the mattress in his underwear, searching for release.

  
Harold can see the line of his erection through his boxers where the sheets have fallen away around his hips, and quickly averts his eyes.

  
This is really not something he should be witnessing, especially with the way John closes himself off from everyone, every part of his life contained like an oyster.

  
John mumbles something Harold doesn’t catch, but he does understand the next sound:

  
It’s _”Harold”_ , a shuddering half-moan again John’s pillow that runs all the way through Harold like a burst of electricity.

  
“John,” he says, helplessly, and he doesn’t know if his voice carries into John’s dream, but John comes closer still until he is pressed against Harold’s side.

  
He doesn’t know what dream-Harold might be doing, but apparently John appreciates it, because he sighs against him and presses his whole body against him, getting Harold’s leg between both of his own so he can push up against him.  
The thin material of his boxers is doing nothing to hide how hard he is, and Harold feels nearly intoxicated with arousal.

  
John is sleep-warm and solid and feels very, very good, hard, athletic body pressed up against Harold, and _oh_ , nuzzling his neck, half spread on top of him.

  
Harold swallows. He should move away, he knows, John is not in a state that will let him make decisions about what he wants or how, but John is also _desperate_ , rutting against his leg, making needy sounds low in his throat.

  
John mutters _”please”,_ desperate for contact even mostly asleep, and Harold puts his hands on him almost on instinct, palms stroking soothingly over his naked back.

  
“Shh, it’s alright, it’s fine,” Harold says.

  
There is a spot on John’s boxers that is soaked with precome, and John’s rhythm against his leg is getting more urgent, John’s face buried in Harold’s throat, and oh, the _sounds_ that he’s making:

  
Stripped of all his defenses, every small pleasure is translated into a moan against Harold’s skin, and John is _loud_ , a stark contrast to his usual self-restraint.

  
Harold moves his hand down lower and pulls John’s boxers down, taking him in hand, and John shudders and thrusts into his hand, hot and hard beneath Harold’s fingers.

  
Harold keeps talking to him, one hand still in John’s neck, stroking through the sweat-soaked curls there, while slowly, thoroughly jerking him off with the other one.

  
John whimpers against his skin, holding on to Harold’s shoulders, desperate for release.

  
Harold lets him set the pace, strokes him as fast as he wants, using the rhythm of John’s hips against him as a point of reference.

  
John makes little, breathy moans with every thrust into Harold’s hand, and Harold tells him how well he’s doing, how _good_ he’s been, whispering it softly against John’s ear, _”Just like that”_ and “ _Come on, John_ ” and “ _That’s it_ ”.

  
John says his name like a prayer, _Harold Harold Harold_ , before shaking apart in Harold’s arms, coming all over his hand.

\--

Harold cleans himself up in the bathroom and comes back to do the same for John. Harold takes care with John, pressing a kiss to his forehead before pulling the sheets back over him.

  
John is soundly asleep, lying on his back, endlessly vulnerable and exposed.

  
Harold wonders if he was dreaming after all, or just somewhere in the space between sleeping and waking up, half-aware of Harold’s touch, his words in his ear. It doesn’t matter, though.

  
Even though John seems to want him, he has not disclosed this information to Harold by his own choice, and however much Harold wants to repeat the experience, to do the same thing to John when he’s awake and _taking part_ , his eyes fixed on Harold, Harold is aware that he has broken John’s trust enough by not getting out of bed the second he realized what was going on and locking himself in the bathroom.

  
He doesn’t know what John will remember of his dream, if anything at all, and even though Harold now knows what John wants, he will not use information he has gathered when John was at his most vulnerable.

  
Harold sits down on the edge of the tub in the bathroom, slips his hand beneath the elastic of his own boxers, and strokes himself to the images of John curled above him, his breath hot against Harold’s neck, his hips thrusting against him, the desperate sounds he made, every touch of Harold’s hand on his cock a sweet little moan.

  
He doesn’t take long, his breath speeding up until he can feel himself going over the edge, gripping the edge of the tub for support, stars exploding in his vision where he has squeezed his eyes shut.

\--

When Harold wakes up, John is already dressed, putting the parts of his his gun together at the table, letting the bolt slide back with a satisfying click.

  
“Morning, Harold,” he says.

  
“Good morning, Mr. Reese,” Harold says, resisting the temptation to ask John about his dreams.

 

\-- fin


	2. a list of things to remember (twenty things you can never forget)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: teaanddenial asked for something inspired by this poem:
> 
> http://louiskingtrashmouth.tumblr.com/post/34649089395/companion-piece-to-this-poem
> 
> so I rewrote it as Root/Shaw, Root POV.

(don’t write anything down, there are spies everywhere)

 

**a list of things to remember (twenty things you can never forget)**

 

1\. personal space: she is more comfortable with a hot iron against her throat than your fingertips on her skin.

  
2\. she doesn’t smile. it’s nothing personal.

  
3\. compliment her work.

  
4\. compliment her.

  
5\. compliment her, especially when she pretends to hate it.

  
6\. when she talks about things you don’t understand, memorize them like clusters of living code.

  
7\. when she catches you looking, look on for three seconds longer. one. two. three.

  
8\. only touch her lips to wipe away the blood.

  
9\. don’t hurt her family. she will _ruin_ you.

  
10\. don’t read her thoughts on her face. it’s rude.

  
11\. don’t mention

  
       1. Cole  
       2. Northern Lights  
       3. Cole  
       4. especially Cole

  
12\. don’t let it break you.

  
13\. ~~why do you need her you’ve never needed anyone~~ DON’T LET IT BREAK YOU

  
14\. reminder: it’s all right if she hates you as long as you can still keep her safe.

  
15\. every time she nearly smiles at you, it’s worth it

  
16\. every time she touches you, it’s worth it

  
17\. don’t touch her

  
18\. don’t tell her

  
19\. don’t tell her

  
20\. don’t tell her


	3. Delete and rewrite me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Anonymous asked for Root’s number coming up & the team ending up saving her.

Shaw has kicked down the door with Reese still five steps behind her, and she can hear him say her name sharp like a blade, a warning.

  
She doesn’t _care_ , she’s inside of the room and taking down two of the guards before he has even managed to catch up to her, their guns clattering to the floor.

  
Reese is kneecapping one more who has been standing behind the door while Shaw picks up a chair and slams it into the face of the guy who has his hands on Root, giving him a kick that will screw up every ligament in his right knee and breaking his ankle for good measure.

  
“Remind me to never make you angry,” Root says, her head lolling back where she can’t quite keep herself upright, tied to a chair under flickering neon lights.

  
Her hair is sweaty and there are bruises on her face, blue and purple and green, which means that some are _older_ , probably from days ago, and her skin is scraped raw where she’s zip-tied to the chair.

  
“You okay?” Reese asks, when Shaw doesn’t manage to get out a single word, standing frozen and staring down at where blood is trickling down Root’s chin from a fresh cut.

  
“Never better,” Root says, and Reese kneels down and cuts through her restraints.

  
Root must be even weaker than Shaw thought because she simply falls against him, like a puppet whose strings have been cut.

  
_“Mr. Reese? Miss Shaw?”_ Harold asks over the line, and Shaw knows him long enough to tell that he’s anxious, even though his voice gives nothing away.

  
“We’ve got her, she’s bruised but not broken,” Reese says, checking Root over for injuries before helping her to her feet, one arm around her waist.

  
It’s another sign that she is clearly out of it: Root letting Reese pat her down, his hands probing against the bruises on her skin.

  
“ _Good dog_ ,” Root says, patting his cheek, and for a second Shaw can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or fucking delusional, and then Root’s eyes turn up to the ceiling and she goes completely limp against him.

  
Reese catches her easily, getting one arm under her knees and carrying her, her head against his shoulder, her eyes closed and her face horribly pale.

  
“We need to go,” he says, and Shaw flinches.

  
She has been staring at Root the whole time, gun still in her hand, and painfully drags herself back into the present.

  
“Yes, I,” she says, and walks ahead to clear the way for them.

  
Shaw is glad that Root is unconscious, if she knew that Reese is carrying her like a doll in his arms, she’d probably end up tasering him with 3,000 volts of electricity before making him _really_ sorry.

  
Outside, Reese gets Root on the backseat of the car, and something in Shaw’s chest feels strange at the way he is so careful with her:

  
Making sure she doesn’t hit her head on the side of the door, wrapping her up in his suit jacket before walking around the car and getting into the driver’s seat.

  
_"You don’t even like her,”_ Shaw wants to say, except Reese could probably say the same thing about her, so.

  
Shaw hesitates, then climbs into the back to assess the damage done to Root, half wishing for a pair of gloves, a white coat, something to put distance between her and _this_ , the way Root is bleeding in front of her, bruised and hurt and not herself at all.

  
She can’t do much without her first aid supplies, so she ends up monitoring Root’s vital signs.

  
Shaw makes herself think in lists, _the four signs of hypovolemic shock are tachycardia, tachypnea, narrowed pulse pressure and cold skin._

She is making a plan in her head: Stitches, antibiotics, i.v. fluids, blood transfusions, something to manage the pain, a Tetanus shot.  
Half a bottle of Whisky for herself until she passes out.

  
She’s a doctor, she doesn’t lose her head, she has a personality disorder, she doesn’t _feel_ anything.

  
Shaw repeats it in her head until it feels true.

  
“We’re coming home, Harold,” John says, and Shaw grabs Root’s hand and holds on, pretending to check her pulse.

 


	4. When we're alone, it could be home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Anonymous: Reese/Finch. Harold is in pain, and John gives him a backrub. h/c
> 
> Notes: Title from Halcyon, by Ellie Goulding.

„Do you ever sleep, Harold?“ John asks and puts a plastic bag with Thai takeout on the desk next to him.

  
Harold is sitting hunched over the desk.

  
He is wearing his spectacle microscopes, his hands working on something that looks like a particularly sophisticated alarm clock.

  
He has turned on all the lights in the subway car, the computer monitors running quietly in the background: Numbers and code and grainy security footage.

  
“Do we have a current--“ Shaw’s voice sounds over the speakers, and Harold says: “ _119 West 56th Street_ ,” without looking up from his work.

  
“Really, Harold, answering a question before I’m even done asking is just showing off,” Shaw says, but John can hear the smirk in her voice. “I’ll check in later, report if I found something.”

  
“Very well, Miss Shaw,” Harold says, closing the connection.

  
He puts whatever he’s working on carefully back on the table and turns his chair so he can look at John.

  
“With all the things that have been going on, Mr. Reese, sleep has not exactly been a priority.”

  
He frowns and takes off the spectacles, probably seeing John in some weird fly-vision, and reaches for his own glasses on the desk.

  
John takes off his coat and starts unpacking the contents of the bag when Harold straightens and suddenly draws in a sharp breath, hands clenched at the edge of the desk.

  
“Harold?” John asks, alarmed.

  
Bear leaves his place on the huge pillow in the corner to come over, nosing at Harold’s thigh.

  
Harold takes careful, measured breaths and slowly unclenches his hands, easing away one finger at a time.

  
“It’s nothing, I just -- forgot about the time, and my back doesn’t agree with me,” Harold says, and John can hear the strain in his voice.

  
Harold makes another attempt at getting out of his chair, visibly frustrated, but only ends up letting himself sink down into the chair with a pained hiss.

  
“Mr. Reese, there is a bag with medications on the table over there, would you --“

  
John goes to get it, finding some bottled water and handing it to Harold as well, who just nods and retrieves two white pills out of the bag, swallowing them, hands not quite steady.

  
“Have you been sitting like that all day?” John asks, wincing at how it comes out: Like an accusation.

  
Harold sets down the bottle. He looks -- _defeated_ , John thinks, and instantly feels guilty for the thought.

  
“I am building a rather important part of equipment,” Harold says. “I felt that taking breaks would interrupt my train of thought.”

  
Harold very deliberately doesn’t move, waiting for the pain to subside.

  
His shoulders are drawn and he is still hunched over a little, as if he’s afraid of another sharp flash of pain if he sits up all the way.

  
He looks weary, wired and tense and unhappy, and John has the overwhelming urge to help, to make him _better_.

  
“It’s your muscles cramping, yes? From sitting still for so long?”

  
Harold makes a face.

  
“I usually manage to avoid taking extra medication and take the necessary precautions to avoid exactly this state,” he says, sounding mad at himself.

  
John files away that information for later . He knew that Harold was occasionally taking painkillers because of his spine and hip, but he had underestimated the dimensions of Harold’s pain: He’s implying that he’s on a regular amount of pills that sometimes even requires extra medication, and John is annoyed at himself for missing that, missing how bad it must have been for Harold, dealing with a chronic condition while on the run.

  
He walks to stand behind Harold before he has thought the idea through, his palms resting on Harold’s shoulders, the barest bit of touch.

  
Harold has gone very still beneath him, but he didn’t flinch when John touched him, which John counts as a victory.

  
“I’ll be fine in a moment, Mr. Reese, you don’t have to --“

  
“Would it help?” John asks, as softly as he can manage.

  
He already knows the answer by the way Harold leans against the warmth of his palms.

  
_”Yes, it would,”_ Harold whispers, and John places the middle and index finger of one hand on the spot where Harold’s head meets his neck, applying the barest bit of pressure.

  
John keeps the touch light, stroking along the sides of the neck, stroking over Harold’s shoulders through the fabric of his shirt.

  
He can feel the knots of tension under his hands, the way the muscles are pulled taut with stress.

  
John puts his hands back against the small square of naked skin in Harold’s neck, and Harold makes a little sigh at the contact.

  
“Take off your shirt,” John says in a moment of bravado.

  
Maybe it’s the pain in his shoulders or the headache or his exhaustion that make Harold go along with it, but he actually reaches down to undo the knot of his tie, opening every little button on his vest.

  
John swallows hard.

  
“I’ll be right back,” he says.

  
He digs through Shaw’s first-aid bag until he finds a lotion she used on his shoulder once, and brings it back to the subway car.

  
Harold has unbuttoned his dress shirt all the way and is working on the cuffs.

  
“Do you think you can manage to stand up for a moment?” John asks.

  
He puts a hand on Harold’s elbow to steady him, one hand on his hip for balance, and Harold comes to his feet, one hand holding onto the desk for support.

  
Harold helps him out of his shirt, carefully avoiding his eyes.

  
He turns Harold’s chair so Harold can sit astride the chair, his naked back to John.

  
John has taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, warming some of the lotion in his hands.

  
“Don’t be startled, I am going to touch your neck,” John says, satisfied when Harold doesn’t flinch beneath him, but instead leans against his hands a little.

  
John realizes that he has never seen the naked skin on Harold’s back before:

  
There are pale scars travelling down from his neck over a large part of his spine like a spider web.

  
John smoothes his palms over the muscles of Harold’s shoulder.

  
“If something I do is painful --“

  
“With all due respect, Mr. Reese I am currently experiencing a 12 on the pain scale, whatever you’re doing is probably not going to be _worse_ ,” Harold says, sounding a little more like himself.

  
John smiles.

  
“The pain scale that only goes up to 10?” John asks.

  
“Precisely,” Harold says.

  
John keeps the pressure of his palms constant, careful not to press down too hard.

  
He finds the knots under his fingers that make Harold draw in a sharp breath and commits them to memory like a map.

  
He moves his thumbs over the sides of Harold’s neck, then in a sweeping motion over the shoulders. They sink down a little, as if Harold is making a conscious effort not to draw them up.

  
“Everything okay so far?” John asks.

  
“It’s, uh --“ Harold starts, and swallows.

  
John stops the motion of his hands, unsure if he has done something to make Harold uncomfortable, or if he has put him into even more pain.

  
“It’s very pleasant,” Harold finally says, and his voice sounds smaller than before, as if he’s ashamed of the admission.

  
“Please, continue,” he says, but it comes out more like a question.

  
John finds a particularly tense knot and presses down with his thumb, the other hand resting against Harold’s shoulder for support, and Harold groans, in pain at first, and then in relief.

  
John makes a kneading, circular motion with his thumb to ease the strain.

  
_”Oh,”_ Harold says, as if he has forgotten how it feels not to have your neck curled up into a painful knot, and John says: “If it’s too much, I can stop.”

  
“Please, John, do go on,” Harold says.

  
His hand comes up to cover John’s on Harold’s shoulder, and John feels a warmth running through his entire body at that, grateful.

 

He squeezes Harold’s hand before moving on to the next tension point, and this time Harold talks to him, _”Yes, that’s -- that’s just the spot,”_ , relaxing fractionally under John’s hands.

  
He makes noises, little sighs and a once, a deep, grateful moan when John manages to ease the strain on a particularly sore spot, his own fingers tingling with the effort, his arms heavy.

  
He puts his hands on both sides of Harold’s neck and strokes down along the muscles near his throat before digging into the neck muscles at the base of his skull, and that is a good idea, too:  
Harold makes a noise deep in his throat at that, letting his head fall back against John until he is holding him up, holding his spine straight so Harold won’t be in any pain.

  
The trust implied in it, Harold letting him see this, letting him _help_ , is making John lightheaded.

  
He keeps going until Harold’s muscles feel soft and warm beneath his hands, all the knots loosened, and then he just strokes along his shoulders, presses his fingers into his neck to stroke down in careful lines and little circles.  
John can see in the reflection of one of the windows that Harold has closed his eyes, looking utterly content.

  
Finally, John wraps up his work, mindful of the temperature of the subway car and Harold’s exposed back, and helps him to put his shirt back on.

  
When he crouches in front of Harold to help him with the sleeves, Harold puts his hand into John’s neck, his cheeks flushed, Harold’s thumbs resting just above John’s collar.

  
“Why did you do that,” Harold asks, sounding a little dazed.

  
John blinks up at him. The computer clock tells him that he has been working on Harold’s back for the better part of an hour.

  
“You were in pain,” John says, because it’s the truth.

  
“Yes, but why would you --,” Harold starts, and then he blinks rapidly.

  
“Oh, I have been rather foolish, I think, let me try something,” he says, and then he pulls John up to him so their lips meet, and John is too startled to react for a second.

  
Harold is so certain, pressing soft, closed-mouth kisses against John’s lips, and that’s when John gives himself permission and opens his mouth under Harold’s, sinking against him.

  
They kiss until they’re out of breath, Harold’s hair mussed up under John’s hands and John’s legs cramping where he is still crouched in front of Harold.

  
“I’m afraid I will need a mattress with better back support tonight than the one in the back,” Harold says, buttoning his shirt.

  
He looks lovely, lips swollen from where John has kissed him, the tips of his ears flushed pink.

  
There is something _easy_ to him, like John took more than just a tension out of his shoulders.

  
“Oh, sure,” John says, trying not to let his disappointment show.

  
Harold, who must have seen something pass over his face, puts a hand against his cheek.

  
“I was talking about the bed in my apartment, John. I was hoping you’d join me there.”

  
John’s heart does something funny in his chest, like it’s escaping gravity for a second, and then he has to lean up to kiss Harold again, now that he knows that he can, that he’s _welcome_.

  
“I think I’ll sleep just fine tonight,” Harold says, and when John offers him his hand, he takes it.

 

\-- fin


	5. Fireworks exploding in my hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Nightwolfslair asked for Reese/Finch: Orgasm denial & praise kink. 
> 
> Title from “Black Out Days” by Phantogram

„Hands,“ Harold chides, and John consciously puts his arms to his sides.

  
John clenches his fingers into the fabric to resist the temptation to touch himself.

  
He’s so _hard_ , he feels like just a casual touch, the ghost of Harold’s breath on his overheated skin might tip him over the edge at this point.

  
The urge to touch Harold, to pull him down and against him is almost too sweet to resist.

  
John is lying on his back, panting with arousal, and Harold just keeps touching him:

  
A line of feather light caresses and barely-there kisses along his throat, down to his sternum, fingertips dancing over his skin.

  
Harold runs his thumbs over John’s nipples in circles, teasing them into hardness.

  
He moves up to John’s throat to touch the spot where neck meets shoulder, to stroke down to the line of his collarbones and over his arms, over the scar of a gunshot wound and the jagged edges that knives left on John’s skin.

  
Harold follows the same path with his mouth, not touching him anywhere but the place where his lips place soft, gentle kisses.

  
John’s whole body is alight with the warmth of his breath, and he whimpers with desire, trying to stop his hips from pushing upwards reflexively.

  
“That’s it, John, very good. No touching yourself tonight, I believe I was very clear on that.”

  
Harold has given John a task for the night, and a set of very specific intructions to complete his goal: Not to come until Harold tells him to, no touching, no friction against anything. Actually, John isn’t supposed to _move_ except for when Harold tells him to.

  
It seemed easy enough then, with the prospect of Harold finally touching him, making him feel good, but by now it’s _torture_ :

  
Harold takes his time in exploring his body, the touch of his hands and lips and tongue all over him, with apparently no intention to get John off anytime soon.

  
Now he’s moving down John’s stomach in a line of kisses and delicious caresses on John’s side, fingers splayed over John’s hipbones.

  
Harold presses his lips to the crown of John’s cock and John’s hands spasm where he his gripping the covers.

  
He licks down his shaft, and John is so turned on he thinks he’s going to go _blind_ with it, his whole body thrumming with sweet excitement and every inch of his skin hypersensitive and tingling.

  
Harold runs his thumb along the underside of John’s cock, delicate pressure on the sensitive spot just below the head, and John groans beneath him, thighs trembling with the effort to keep himself still.

  
“Spread your legs for me,” Harold says, moving down even further, and John lets his knees fall to the side, giving Harold room to work.

  
Harold nuzzles against the dark nest of pubic hair before pressing his lips to the delicate skin of John’s perineum, making him shudder and gasp.

  
John half-wishes that Harold had tied him down so he wouldn’t have to fight not to move, the urge to touch himself almost unbearable by now.

  
Harold lets his hand slip lower, one finger circling the tight ring of muscle, agonizingly light.

  
“I wonder if I could make you come just by talking to you,” Harold says thoughtfully, and John’s hips jerk forward at that, so close to coming that he has to consciously pull himself back from the edge.

  
“Tsk,” Harold says, a sound of disapproval.

  
John wants to push against Harold’s hand so much that it takes all of his strength to draw himself back, and then Harold leans down to replace his finger with his tongue and John sobs with it, Harold licking into him, all exquisite wet heat.

  
“Please, I’m going to come,” John mumbles, half-delirious with pleasure, his skin glistening with sweat.

  
Harold stops, sitting back to watch John, flushed and breathing heavily, tears leaking from his eyes.

  
Harold strokes his thighs absently, long, soothing movements, waiting for John’s arousal to subside.

  
“You’re doing so well tonight, John,” Harold says, and the sound of Harold’s voice is wrecking John’s body like a fever.

  
“So desperate, and still you want to be good for me,” Harold continues, stroking the inside of his knee. “You’re so beautiful like this: All spread out for me, letting me do whatever I want to you.”

  
John whimpers, his body aching to be touched.

  
Harold smiles down at him, bends his head to use his tongue on him again, and all that John knows how to say is _Please_ , his cheeks wet and his voice hoarse.

\--

Later, when John is kneeling on all fours, Harold entering him from behind, John is still achingly hard.

  
He hasn’t come once since Harold spread him out and took him apart.

  
The stretch of Harold’s cock inside him is nearly too much, nearly enough to tip him over, and Harold’s hands are still all over him, on his hips and back, reaching down to squeeze his nipples, and John can barely get a hold of himself, his arms shaking.

  
“Harold, please,” he pants, “too much.”

  
Harold eases off a little, not moving inside him, just letting John get accustomed to the stretch, and after a moment, John says, “Yes, okay, yes,” and Harold moves forward, achingly slow.

  
John cries out at the first touch against his prostate, and Harold stops himself instinctively, even before John says, “I’m so close, Harold, _I’m so close_ ”.

  
Harold leans forward to press kisses against John’s lower back, slick with sweat, holding himself perfectly still.

  
“You’re so good for me, John, always so good for me,” Harold says, and John clenches around him, making him gasp.

  
Harold keeps pushing forward one bit at a time, with John occasionally making small, desperate sounds when he feels himself getting too close, and Harold stilling inside him, patient.

  
Finally, when he has John reduced to a whimpering, shaking mess, Harold reaches down to close his hand around John’s cock, tugging slowly. He starts to move in long generous thrusts, ignoring the protest of his hips.

  
He adjusts the angle so he is hitting John’s prostate harder, drawing breathy little moans out of him.

  
“Come for me, John,” Harold says softly, and John’s entire body shudders against him instantly.

  
Harold talks him through his climax while John is spurting over his hand, the sheets, and Harold pushes into him, thrusting two more times before his hands tighten on John’s hips and he goes over the edge, too.

  
After, John is boneless and sated, and after Harold cleans them up and pulls a fresh sheet over them, he looks up at him, blissed-out and blindingly happy.

  
“C’mere,” John mumbles, opening his arms, and Harold does, curling up close and letting himself touch John all over again:

  
Soothing touches down his arms and chest, taking his hands into his own and pressing kisses to every single knuckle, the insides of John’s wrists.

  
John sighs and cuddles close against him.

  
“You’ve done so well today, John,” Harold says, repeats it over and over until John has fallen asleep.

 

 

\-- fin


	6. we all deserve the finer things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daisy (teaanddenial) asked for Reese/Finch & suit porn, so suit porn she shall have : D 
> 
> Title from “Greenback Boogie” by Ima Robot.

It’s dark outside by now, and Harold is still working on him, measuring tape around his neck, a piece of tailor’s chalk in his palm like a guitar pick.

  
“Shoulders are one of the hardest parts of a jacket to adjust, in many ways, as there is not much leverage with the fabric after the initial fitting,” Harold says, running his fingertips over the breast pocket and all the way up to John’s shoulders, adjusting his collar.

  
“A well-fitted shoulder lies flat. The seam on top of the shoulder should be the same length as the bone under it, and shouldn’t wrinkle at any point,” he explains, following the line of John’s shoulder with his palm.

  
John is trying really hard to think of something, _anything_ else but Harold’s hands on him.

  
He especially shouldn’t think about the way Harold was kneeling in front of him earlier, marking the length of his pants with decisive white chalk lines.

  
“If the seam comes to rest across the deltoid muscle,” Harold continues, running his hands over the side of John’s shoulder, “the fit is too loose.”

  
John barely suppresses a shiver. He has been half-hard since the fitting started, and if Harold keeps it up like that, the cut of his pants will be the least of his problems.

  
“Am I boring you, Mr. Reese?” Harold asks, from where he is tugging at John’s sleeves, smoothing the fabric down from his shoulders down to his wrists.

  
“Not at all, Harold,” John manages.

  
It’s the _focus_ , John thinks:

  
Sharp blue eyes over every line and curve of his body, assessing him, taking him in.

  
John really wants to take off his clothes and feel the touch of Harold’s hands on every inch of his skin, especially where he is starting to spoil the line of his suit with his growing erection.

  
If Harold has noticed, he doesn’t acknowledge it.

  
“ _A half-inch of linen_ , as the saying goes, is a guideline for the relationship between a suit jacket and the shirt worn under it,” Harold continues, apparently oblivious to the way John is in urgent need of a visit to the restroom, or really just a quiet spot in the stairwell at this point, so he can lean against a wall and get himself off quickly, biting down on his own hand so he won’t make any noise.

  
Harold tugs at John’s sleeves with the fabric between thumb and index finger, brushing the back of John’s hand.

  
“There should be about half an inch of the shirt cuff visible beyond the jacket cuff.”

  
Maybe it’s John’s imagination, but it feels like Harold has been coming closer, his body now mere inches from John’s. John can see the dark green satin border on Harold’s pocket square, every detail on the fabric of his suit.

  
And Harold’s _hands_ , clever fingers expertly tugging at the fabric, smoothing it down like a caress with broad, warm palms.

  
Harold has placed a safety pin between his lips so he has both hands free to do something complicated with the line of buttons on the jacket. He moves one hand to his mouth to retrieve it from his mouth, tongue darting out to lick his lips after, and John is so close to embarrassing himself at this point, he just hopes that the pants will pass inspection.

  
“Are all of these these fittings really necessary, Harold?” John asks, wondering if Harold can hear the strain in his voice.

  
“Bespoke tailored suits respect small nuances of the wearer’s body, Mr. Reese,” Harold says softly. “More than just measurements are needed to achieve that, and it would be a waste to create a meager end result just to hurry things along.”

  
He steps a little to the side, almost out of John’s peripheral vision, and then his hands are on John again, one on his shoulder, one on his back.

  
“Individual details like the slope of the shoulder,” Harold says, following the line of John’s throat from below his ear all the way to his upper arm. “To the arch of the back --“

  
Harold puts a hand on the small of John’s back, warmth through the fabric and the lightest bit of pressure. John is sweating under his collar, shifting his weight a little from one foot to the other.

  
“Or even the shape of the hips,” Harold mumbles, impossibly close to John’s ear, and now John _does_ shiver with it, Harold’s hands resting on both sides of his hips, smoothing out the fabric.

  
Just when John thinks that they’re done, that there surely can be no way Harold will still need more time to work on him, Harold starts talking again.

  
“A good suit or sports jacket should fall past the waist, obviously, and not be too long,” Harold lectures, and John lets his eyes close, lets himself get lost in the sound of Harold’s voice.

  
“An ideal fit covers the backside down to the point where the buttocks start to curve back inward,” Harold explains, and John realizes that he’s actually holding his breath, waiting for Harold to touch him, but Harold just stands there, considering.

  
“Take off the jacket please, Mr. Reese,” Harold says, and John slips out of the soft fabric and hands it to him.

  
Harold folds it up carefully and places it on the back of the chair.

  
“Now, pants,” Harold says, and John draws in a shaky breath, dizzy with arousal.

  
Harold steps in front of him and tugs at his shirt until he can unbutton it.

  
“I think I’ll make some alterations to the dress shirt,” Harold says calmly, opening the last button and pushing it over John’s shoulders.

  
John feels a whole-body shudder at the feeling of the air hitting his naked skin.

  
Harold tugs the shirt free from his arms and folds it over the chair, too.

  
“I think double-cuffed with cufflinks is the way to go, Mr. Reese. Do you have an opinion on shirt collars?”

  
Harold is right in front of him now, reaching out his hand as if he wanted to touch John, and with a hot shiver John realizes that Harold is in fact very aware of his condition, probably has been since he made John stand in the middle of the room and marked him down with a little piece of chalk.

  
“Personally, I’d go for a cutaway collar. Bolder than spread collars, a little more daring. What do you think?”

  
“ _Harold_ ,” John manages, and then Harold leans forward, lips close to John’s ear.

  
“Do you know the secret to tailoring a good suit, Mr. Reese?” He asks.

  
Harold unbuttons John’s pants and slips his hand inside, sneaking beneath the elastic of John’s underwear, and John grinds his teeth when Harold’s hand won’t _move_.

  
“What is the secret of a good suit, Harold?” He asks obediently, his voice a little shaky on the last two syllables.

  
“A good suit should be bold across the shoulders,” Harold says, low and intimate in John’s ear, moving his hand over John’s cock in a gentle rhythm that makes John whimper and reach out to grab Harold’s shoulders for support, clenching his hands into the expensive fabric.

  
“It should fall in gentle lines around the waist, and form a good shape around the buttocks, not too loose and not too tight.”

  
John leans forward a little, bending his spine so he can put his forehead against Harold’s shoulder while Harold is slowly jerking him off.

  
“I don’t think I got that part,” John mumbles, mouth open and panting, hips jerking against Harold’s hand.

  
“Really? You _did_ seem somewhat distracted,” Harold says with a wicked grin.

  
There is a slight blush on his cheeks, but otherwise he shows no telltale sign that he currently has his hand shoved down John’s pants.

  
John shudders against him.

  
“Just talk to me, Harold,” he says.

  
Harold’s other hand comes up into his neck, turning his head a little, and then Harold kisses him, sweet and promising.

  
When they part, Harold smiles up at him.

  
“So, Mr. Reese, on the nature of fabrics,” he starts, and John sighs and lets himself be educated.

 

 

\-- fin


End file.
